


said God; love covers a multitude of sins

by philthestone



Series: hark the bluebells [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Post S3, and aramis and anne deserve to raise their son together and be happy and married forever, but most importantly: dad aramis; or dadamis;;, flagrant historical inaccuracy for the sake of family fluff u guys, the ending of BBC's The Musketeers is shaped like a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: Louis the XIV of France is sixteen years old when he realizes that his father is still alive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> basically i watched all 300 hours of bbc's the musketeers in a little over three weeks; it's beautiful and i cried forever at that ending bc WHAT KIND OF HAPPY ENDING,,,,
> 
> anyways more notes at the end but reviews are pure family dynamics and queen anne's happiness after everything she's endured. also can u believe annamis was endgame because i personally still am convinced it is a happy dream,,

When Louis is six, he quickly realizes that Aramis is not, in fact, going to be his new servant. Aramis is in the palace a lot more than he was before – _before_ , when everything was a little different and Papa was still around. But he wears pretty blue clothes and Mama says he is the First Minister of France, and that that is an important position, and that his job is to help her rule Louis’s people until Louis is old enough and wise enough to do so himself.

Louis wonders if he will ever be wise. He is not wholly sure what the word means, only that it is something that makes you a person people like, and that Madame d’Chevreaux, who has been hired as his new governess, says it is a word that describes Mama well. _Wise despite her youth_ , is what Madame d’Chevreaux had said, helping to button him into his tunic in the morning, three weeks after Papa stopped coming to wake him in the mornings and he had his adventure with Madame d’Artagnan in the streets of Paris. _You would do well to learn from her, your Majesty_.

Madame d’Chevreaux likes Mama very much, which is why Louis supposes she is his new governess. His old governess, Mademoiselle Dufraimont, always went tight in the lips when Mama was in the room. Papa liked her, but Louis thought her smiles were too pinched. 

Louis likes it when people have nice smiles, and Aramis has the best of smiles. He is not always smiling, Louis knows. He has seen him talking to the council, standing taller than everyone with a snap to his voice and a clench in his jaw. He has seen him speaking extra quietly with Mama, sometimes, their heads bent over important state papers. He has seen the crease between his brows when he carried him the first time, through the streets of Paris with Mama on his other side. But he is always smiling at Louis, it seems, with a twinkle in his eyes that Louis likes very much. And when Aramis is smiling, Mama is also smiling, so Louis supposes that even if Aramis isn’t his new servant, he would very much like him to stay a long while, just so that Mama smiles more. She didn’t used to smile nearly as much, before when Papa still woke him up in the mornings, unless she was smiling at Louis. Mama always smiled when she looked at Louis, just as Aramis always smiles at him now.

But now Mama smiles when she looks at others as well. Louis likes Mama dearly when she smiles. It lights up her whole face; it’s such a nice smile.

Louis finds Aramis walking in the gardens on a Tuesday, after he has finished playing with Madame d’Chevreaux and Madame d’Artagnan in front of the palace steps. A great number of new people are staying in the public rooms at the Louvre, now, and Mama says it is because their home was burned down, which Louis gathers is a horrible thing to have happen to you.

“They are your people’s protectors,” says Mama, very seriously, taking his hands in her own. “And so we ought to give them a place to stay until they rebuild their house. Don’t you think, Louis?”

Louis nods, because he does think so. They’re all very nice, with good smiles that Louis approves of, and he already knows Captain and Madame d’Artagnan, anyway. Captain d’Artagnan lets him hold his hat with the pretty feather in it and Louis thinks that they are great friends, even if Louis is the king. Louis is everyone’s king, these days, and he wishes sometimes that he could just be some people’s friend, like Mama is everyone’s queen but _his_ Mama.

So he finds Aramis walking in the garden, reading a letter held in his hand, and tells him this. Aramis seems like the right person to tell such things. He has a _look_.

Aramis comes to a stop, still holding the letter, and looks down to where Louis standing before him. 

“You mean to say that you’d like to be someone’s mama, your Majesty?”

“Don’t be silly,” says Louis, because that _is_ silly. Aramis’s eyes are twinkling again. “Do you have friends, Aramis?”

“I do have friends,” says Aramis, smiling again. “A great many dear ones. You’ve met Captain and Madame d’Artagnan, Majesty, have you not?”

“They’d make good friends,” says Louis seriously, considering this. They are very warm, and smell like flowers and something funny and metallic that Madame d’Chevreaux says with a small sniff is gunpowder. “I wish I had friends.”

“Don’t you?” asks Aramis, genuinely curious.

“Well,” says Louis slowly, as this is an answer that must be given quite a bit of thought. “I don’t know. Everyone says I’m the king, and – I, I don’t think I have friends like you do. And there’s not anyone here who’s my age, either.”

Aramis seems to consider this, his head tilting to the side, before he kneels in front of Louis with only a slight moment of hesitation, beckoning with his finger for Louis to come closer; Louis does. He feels that Aramis has something very important to say.

“What would you say, your Majesty,” says Aramis in a sort of loud whisper, “if I told you that you might have many playmates of your own age quite soon.”

Louis’s eyes widen.

“D’you mean it?”

“Some might be older than you,” says Aramis. “And some younger. But your Mama and Madame du Vallon are working together to build an orphanage on the palace grounds. In a few years, there will be many more children here to befriend.”

Louis has never met Madame du Vallon before, but if she is helping Mama bring him friends, she sounds lovely. “But why would they be coming here?” asks Louis. “Is it just to play with me?”

“Well, no,” allows the First Minister, a smile tugging at his lips under his mustache. “It’s because they don’t have mamas or papas of their own, and they need a place to stay.”

“Like I don’t have a papa any longer,” says Louis. Something flickers in Aramis’s eyes, kind of like the light in them has suddenly dimmed, and Louis feels himself frown. There’s always light in Aramis’s eyes – it feels off, somehow, that it disappeared like that, but – oh, now it’s back.

“It’s alright,” says Louis. “I miss him too sometimes.”

“It’s good that you do, Majesty,” says his First Minister, in a voice that’s a little odd. “He would be proud of you.”

Louis remembers Papa’s hugs in the mornings and how he would play with him in the gardens. He hopes that Papa is happy, wherever he is. But right now, Louis doesn’t miss him quite so much, because he has Mama and Mama is smiling so much more these days, and he has Madame d’Chevreaux who is very nice despite her tutting when she laces his tunic, and he has Aramis, whose eyes are twinkling again and who is going to bring him playmates his own age, because he is the First Minister of France.

“Do you have other friends, Aramis?” asks Louis; he feels it is very important to keep the conversation going.

“I do,” confirms Aramis, bending his head slightly so that he can look at Louis more directly. He really is _very_ tall. Louis wonders if _he_ will ever be that tall. “But they’re not all here at the moment. Some of them moved away, you see.”

“Because of you?”

Aramis’s laugh is sudden and bright as he stands, still gripping his letters in his hands. “You know, you might be onto something, Majesty!” But his eyes soften. “I sincerely hope they didn’t leave because of me.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t leave because of you,” Louis decides, walking around to Aramis’s side and falling into step with him as they resume walking. Aramis is taking smaller steps than usual, Louis notices, but Louis still has to run a little to keep up. “You’re too nice. Even if you’re not my servant.”

“No,” says Aramis, with another small laugh. “But I’m your first minister, Majesty, and that means I _am_ serving you.”

“I’m glad,” says Louis suddenly, “that you’re here. Mama is smiling a lot more. And I shall have friends soon, I think.”

Aramis smiles, and Louis feels a little warm and happy inside. Aramis really does have the best of smiles.

**

When Louis is seven, he escapes his lessons and his governess to go and sit among the hedges in the garden, where he can look up at the noonday sun and play pretend with his favorite toys. He has lots of toys, he knows, but most of them sit unused in the nursery, carefully dusted or rearranged by the maids each day; Louis only truly plays with a _few_ of them regularly, because of course, _those_ are his favorite. Madame d’Chevreaux says that the king may have more than one favorite toy if he so pleases, but when Louis asks Mama, she just tilts her head at him.

“Favorite toys are s’posed to be special,” Louis says, very seriously. That is what the word favorite implies, is it not? What other reason does he have for going to lessons each day, but to learn the meaning of words such as _favorite_ so he can discuss his toys as such.

“You’re right,” Mama says, after a moment. “ _Favorite_ does imply special, does it not? Perhaps, then, we shall take extra care of them, if they are dear to you.”

Louis knows, even at the age of seven, that one has to take great care of things that are dear to one, because otherwise they might break or get lost and then everyone would be sad. His mama is very wise. Aramis says that’s why she’s the Queen Regent of the whole country. Aramis always agrees with him when he says good things about Mama. 

Louis lays back in the grass and holds up the favorite-est of his toys, a little carved horse that Mama said was a birthday gift from General du Vallon. Louis likes General du Vallon, because he is always taller than everyone else in the room, taller even than Aramis, and has a lovely laugh that seems to light up his whole face. He is also good at carving toys from wood, which is an added bonus when one is a friend of Louis’s. Last month, for his birthday, the Duke of Savoy sent him an elaborately gilded horse, the size of Aramis’s hand, which was painted white and gold and had gemstones for eyes.

Louis likes his little wooden horse better. He’s named it Didier, because once he heard Madame d’Artagnan say that was the name of General du Vallon’s real horse, and he revels in the way his thumbs can slide over the smooth curve of the little horse’s mane. Sometimes, Louis pretends that Didi can fly. 

That is what he is doing now, having clutched Didi and one of his playing swords tightly in his fingers behind his back as he ran from the palace steps all the way across the garden. He lifts Didi above his head and shakes him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, letting him prance over the funniest-shaped cloud he can see in the sky. He makes faint noises of flying for added effect, and then waves the sword with his other hand, and imagines he is protecting a whole village of people from a dreaded bandit with red eyes and one arm. The grass tickles his ears a little bit, but he thinks this is what Didi feels on his hooves each time Louis sets him down in the grass. That, Louis thinks, is why Didi prefers flying.

“You know, if Didi could talk, Majesty, he would chide you for skipping your lessons.”

Louis freezes in his daydream, his eyes slowly sliding upwards to look at the tall figure standing easily over him with his hands clasped behind his back. The sun is shining from the other side, in the direction of Louis’s feet, and so he never even had a warning of a shadow. Bother. His arms flop to the floor at his sides.

“Lessons are no fun, Aramis.”

“Lessons are the most fun in the world,” counters his First Minister, his hands still clasped. “I’ll bet that if I could convince Madame d’Chevreaux to incorporate singing into your lessons, you’d be reciting the Latin alphabet as though it was the latest most popular hero’s warcry.”

“Would it be a good song?”

“Only the best for you, your Majesty.”

Louis looks back down at Didi, still clutched in his hand.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he says. Aramis hums above him.

From somewhere in the gardens, there is the cry of a peacock. Aramis sits down in the grass beside him, and stretches his legs out.

“What are you doing?” asks Louis, frowning slightly.

“Joining you on this fine day, Majesty,” says Aramis. “Unless, of course, you would rather I not.”

“Oh,” says Louis. He is looking sideways in the grass, the blades tickling his cheek and ear more than ever. Aramis is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, a slight twinkle of mirth in his brown eyes. Aramis always looks like he is secretly smiling, Louis thinks. Like they’re always sharing a funny joke. It’s splendid. “No, it’s alright. You can stay.”

“Thank you,” says Aramis, and looks up at the clouds, now. Louis looks up with him.

“Mama said this morning that you had to write letters and you couldn’t read my lessons with me.”

“Writing letters is no fun,” says Aramis, and now Louis _knows_ they’re sharing a joke, because there is a smile on the First Minister’s face. Louis feels his cheeks grow hot and he pouts, up at the funny shaped clouds.

“I bet most children don’t have to do lessons.”

There is quiet, for a long moment, punctuated only by the muffled cries of birds through the tall hedges surrounding them. A warm breeze moves softly over Louis’ cheeks, and he hears Aramis take a deep breath beside him, so he does the same, letting the sweet air fill his chest. 

“You’re right,” says Aramis finally, his voice soft, “only the most fortunate of children have lessons.”

Louis blinks. He hadn’t thought of that. But he has a solution, and he feels very proud of himself for thinking of it.

“Do you think I might give my lessons to someone who doesn’t have them?” 

Aramis laughs, bright and rich as the sun above them. Louis smiles, because Aramis’s laugh is infectious, and watches as Aramis turns his head in the grass once more to look at him. He clutches Didi to his chest and rolls a little onto his side. Madame d’Chevreaux would despair over the stains on his tunic, but Louis has lots of other pretty tunics. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with them all. 

“Who did you have in mind, your Majesty?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admits. “Only, I really want to stay out here and play with Didi some more.”

Aramis hums. “A fine horse, Didi,” he says. 

“He’s the finest,” confirms Louis. “General du Vallon gave him to me. Mama said he was your friend.”

“He is my friend,” corrects Aramis, but there is a new softness to his expression as he looks up at the clouds. “A very dear friend.”

“Am I your friend too?”

Perhaps if Louis were older, he would notice the significance in the slight hitch of his First Minister’s breath at his question. As it is, he watches Aramis as he raises an eyebrow at him, grass flattened by his cheek and the blue of his coat. 

“You are my King, your Majesty.”

“But that’s no fun,” says Louis. He has a very specific definition of fun. And they’ve had this conversation before, he thinks, but now – things are different, it feels, somehow. “I’m everyone’s king. I don’t see _everyone_ nearly as much as I see you.”

The birds caw in the gardens.

“I would be honoured,” says Aramis at length, “to consider you my friend.”

Louis grins, his cheeks dimpling in the ticklish grass, and hugs Didi more tightly. “I would be honoured too!” he declares, and Aramis laughs again, that same bright one that always makes Louis feel safe.

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” says Aramis, “perhaps we should honour Madame d’Chevreaux with your presence.”

His eyes are still twinkling. Louis heaves a great big sigh.

“Only if we can tell her about the funny shaped clouds.”

“Naturally,” says Aramis, and Louis supposes that lessons might not be so bad if Aramis really _can_ convince Madame d’Chevreaux to teach him songs. Most ideas Aramis has, Louis knows, are good ones. And besides – if Aramis says lessons are fun, Louis should trust him. If Didi has taught him anything, it’s that friends trust each other with everything.

(“Didi is almost as wise as your mother,” says his friend when Louis tells him this later, as they make the treacherous journey back to his lessons. His voice is very solemn, and they walk together through the gardens to where an anxious-looking Madame d’Chevreaux is hovering on the steps.

Louis holds Didi tightly and smiles, feeling very proud of himself.)

**

When Louis is nine, he wakes in his chambers in what feels like the middle of the night, his heart racing, because he has had a terrible dream. He can’t quite remember what it was about, because all of the moving colours and things in his head were a blur, but it _felt_ loud and scary and like he couldn’t breathe very well, and now he is stumbling out of his large bed, trying to remain steady on trembling legs. It’s not working very well, and it’s scaring him almost as much as the dream did. His thin night shift is cold now that the thick quilt is no longer covering him, and the stone of the floor is biting at his bare feet.

It feels like whatever phantom thing was clutching his dreams is still chasing him, because the shadows the torches throw over the walls of the hallway are frightening him, and the cold is frightening him, and his chest is so terribly tight with upset; he remembers that he left his bedroom because he had half an idea of going to see Mama, but now he’s not sure how good of an idea that was. The corridors are dark and confusing and the awful feelings he’d had in his sleep _haven’t gone_ , and the whole world seems to want to rise its shadowy tendrils above him and swallow him up.

There is a slight rustle in front of him, a little further up the dimly-lit corridor, and Louis, who has been focusing intently on the stones under his feet in an effort to pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist, jumps, his hands clenched at his sides. He cannot seem to stop trembling, and he is sure many of the stuffy old men on the council would tell him that the _king_ ought not be afraid of the dark –

Aramis is standing in the hallway, a few steps away from the door of Mama’s chambers, looking surprised. Perhaps it is because he is so surprised that he forgets to address Louis by his title as he usually does – a soft, “Louis?” escaping his lips before he takes a hesitant step forward.

Louis bursts into tears.

Immediately, Aramis seems to materialize there beside, him, a hand first on his shoulder, firm, and then on his back, warm and strong, and then finally, when Louis does not seem to be capable of composing himself, curling around and encompassing him in a warm hug. Crying is always miserable, but Louis cannot shake the awful feeling of _upset_ from his chest until some of the warmth of Aramis’s hug seeps through his thin shift and into him, easing his shivers. 

“Shhh, shhhh,” says the gentle voice Louis is so familiar with from above him, one hand still against Louis’ back, rubbing softly. “It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re safe, _hijito_.”

That is a term only Mama uses, in the privacy of their chambers when she bids him goodnight on days that have been particularly long and tiring. Louis does not stop to wonder where Aramis learned it, but burrows further into Aramis’s shoulder and lets the comfort of the word tug away at the trembles that are slowly disappearing. Aramis’s coat is unbuttoned, so Louis can feel the warmth of his chest more easily than he might have otherwise, and it feels suddenly and wonderfully exactly the right place to be.

He hiccups, once, twice, and holds tightly to the lapels of Aramis’s open coat when he moves to pull away.

“Louis,” says his friend, and his usually gentle voice carries an edge underneath it, something laced with a tense sort of worry. “Would you like to tell me what’s upset you so?”

“I –” Louis sniffs, “I had a frightening dream.”

“Ah,” says Aramis, relief replacing the edge of his voice with a small _whoosh_ , pulling away just enough so that he can look Louis in the eye. The dim lighting of the corridor casts shadows along his face, over the lock of his long hair that is hanging over his eyes and the grey speckles in his beard, but the shadows don’t seem nearly as frightening anymore. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“I can’t r-really remember it,” says Louis, blinking at him tearfully. “It was just a – a lot of scary colours. And feelings.”

Aramis takes a moment and shakes the sleeve of his shirt up over his hand, and then uses it to dry the wetness on Louis’s cheeks. He keeps his other hand firmly on Louis’s arm as he does so, and presently says, “What kinds of feelings?”

“Bad ones,” says Louis quietly, looking down at his feet. He knows that kings are supposed to be brave, and right now he is feeling anything but. He’s sure that when Papa was king, he was never frightened like this. And his playmates, Marie and Pierre and the other children who live in the big building on the other side of the castle grounds, _they_ probably don’t have frightening dreams. Luc, Louis remembers, is going to be a Musketeer himself – he’d said so, so proud and excited that Captain d’Artagnan had let him wear his hat for a whole ten minutes. 

But more embarrassing, really, is the fact that Louis knows _Aramis_ is very, very brave. Mama has said so, and Louis has heard stories about the old Musketeer legends. Whenever Aramis tells him the stories – at bedtimes, when Mama or Madame d’Chevreaux have other duties, or sometimes just because Louis asks – he pretends that he was not nearly as brave, telling him that the best swordsman was Athos, who once fought ten men on his own with only his _main gauche_ – or Porthos, who could carry three people to safety at once, balancing a man on each shoulder and a woman on his back – or d’Artagnan, the youngest captain the Garrison had ever seen, good and kind and brave. But Louis has heard the stories from others, as well; sometimes, if he pleads (or, in desperation, commands), Madame d’Artagnan will tell him stories of their adventures on days when she comes to visit Mama. She and Mama are great friends, and Mama always smiles when Madame d’Artagnan is around – especially when she tells him the story about the time she and Aramis had to rescue a baby from a group of bad men, he singing in a cracking voice and she barely knowing yet how to wield a sword.

(Mama told Louis once that when _he_ was a baby, Aramis risked his life to save them from danger, even though he was injured. 

“I wasn’t injured,” his friend had started to protest, but Mama had silenced him with a look that Louis knew she reserved for very few people. It was her look of exasperated affection – that’s what General du Vallon called it, and the Queen Regent of France did not bestow that look, but _Mama_ did. 

“You had just fallen out of a five-story window,” Mama said in a dry voice, and Louis had been in awe.

“Does that mean you can’t die, Aramis?”

“Most certainly it does _not_ ,” had said Aramis, sounding an odd mix between amused and terrified. 

“It does mean that he’s a gallant hero,” Mama had said in a conspiratorial whisper, while Aramis made a small noise of protest. “Even if he pretends otherwise.”)

(It had been the only time Louis had seen Aramis blush.)

He is not blushing now, but tilting Louis’s chin up with one finger and holding his gaze with his sharp brown eyes. Louis’s own eyes are brown, but he doesn’t think they’ll ever see as much as Aramis’s have – he’s had so many adventures.

“Louis,” and this time the forgoing of his royal title is deliberate. “There’s no shame in having a frightening dream.”

Louis swallows and averts his eyes to a spot of embroidery on the shoulder of Aramis’s coat.

“Kings are s’posed to be brave. Like you.”

“Like _me_?”

Louis nods, still looking at the spot on the shoulder. Aramis tuts.

“I’m afraid you’ve confused me with your Mama, your Majesty. Perhaps the lateness of the hour has affected your faculties.”

“ _No_ ,” insists Louis, his voice still smaller than he would like it to be. “You’re not afraid of anything. It was just a dream.” The last part comes out a mumble, spoken into the collar of his shift.

“On the contrary,” says Aramis in an odd, hoarse voice. “I am afraid of a great many things.”

Louis raises his eyes. There are still tears clinging to his lashes, but he is not longer shivering, and Aramis’s hand is still on his arm. Louis can not bring himself to believe this.

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

Aramis chuckles, low and rough, and gives Louis’s arm a squeeze. “I can promise you, I’m telling the full truth. But you know, I’ve learned over the years that there’s no shame in it.”

“There isn’t?”

“Oh, no,” says Aramis. “Being afraid is something that happens to all of us. What makes a person truly brave is doing the right thing even when they’re frightened.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. He knows that friends are supposed to trust friends, and that Aramis would never lie to him. And yet –

“Are you _sure_?”

Aramis’s hand is still on Louis’s arm, and now he exhales slightly and shifts so that he’s sitting on one knee, one leg lifted up and bent. With a gentle tug, he pulls Louis up over his leg, perching him there, and looks him in the eye. He reaches into his loose shirt and tugs at a ribbon that Louis is only now recognizing as one he’s always wearing. There’s a small jeweled crucifix at the end of it, Louis knows, and that’s what gets pulled out into the open, swinging from its ribbon as Aramis places it, still hanging from his own neck, into Louis’s palm, held in his other hand. Aramis’s hands are large and calloused and dwarfing Louis’s own as he closes Louis’s fingers over the crucifix, and something about that small gesture makes the last of the trembles slip away.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” says Aramis. “Formally. I believe you’ve already met Him, but I think you’ll find Him easier to talk to if I tell Him you know me.”

“Is he a friend of yours?” asks Louis, suddenly terribly curious, forgetting about the last drops of tears drying on his cheeks. Aramis’s friends are always so fun.

“A very good friend!” says Aramis. “In fact, He’s such a good friend that He’s always around me, every moment of the day, protecting me from my frightening dreams.”

“What’s his name?” asks Louis, feeling his eyebrows scrunch into a frown. That sounds like an awfully tricky thing to do, be with someone every moment of the day. They’d need the guards approval to get past all the private corridors and what about when taking a bath? Perhaps, thinks Louis, this friend is so clever that he can make up excuses for you to get out of bath-taking and take you to go play in the garden instead. 

“His name!” Aramis laughs, a small, warm thing, like they are sharing a brilliant secret together. Louis leans in intently. “His name is God.”

“God!” says Louis. 

Aramis nods. 

“Sometimes, when I get frightened, I talk to Him about it.”

Louis frowns. Mama has told him about God, and so has Father Rochelle every Sunday morning at mass, in the big cathedral at Saint Suplice. Louis has always been under the impression that he has to be wearing his very finest clothing to talk to God.

“But I haven’t combed my hair,” says Louis, to Aramis, because of course he hasn’t, it’s in the middle of the night, and if God is as important as Father Rochelle says He is then Louis can’t possibly talk to Him when he’s in his nightclothes and his hair is what Madame d’Chevreaux would very politely declare, “A rat’s nest of curls, your Majesty.” Then again, thinks Louis, perhaps the king of France doesn’t have to have combed his hair to talk to God. 

But Aramis isn’t the king of France like Louis is, and his hair never looks particularly combed either, so perhaps Louis is wrong in his assessment.

It appears he is, because Aramis gives another small laugh and grins at Louis. “I don’t believe God minds much if your hair isn’t combed.” He leans in with a twinkle in his eye and a whisper: “Mine almost never is.”

“I knew it,” Louis whispers back, because he _did_.

There’s something very soft about the way Aramis smiles at him now. “You can talk to God too, if you like. When you get frightened. He’s a very good listener.”

“What should I say?” asks Louis, his voice once more coming out a little small. Voices, Louis knows, are funny things.

“Anything and everything you like,” says Aramis. “As long as you’re polite. Think that you’re talking to your Mama. Or a very beloved Grandpapa.”

“Will God say anything back?”

Aramis pokes Louis’s chest with his finger. 

“You feel it,” he says. “In here.”

Louis looks down at his chest. “That’s a funny place to feel things.”

“It’s like when you give hugs to your Mama, or learn something new in lessons,” says Aramis, his words slow, as though he’s looking for a good way of describing this to him. Louis supposes it’s a very special experience. “You feel warm and happy on the inside. God loves you very dearly, and you can feel it in your chest.”

“Like when when I hug you, too,” says Louis, still looking at his chest, and he is slowly feeling the exhaustion of the aftermath of fright, and the lateness of the hour, settle into his limbs; he does not notice the ripple of surprise that crosses his friend’s face, nor the sudden over-brightness of his eyes, concealed by the dimness of the corridor.

“Try it, your Majesty,” says Aramis, after a long moment. His voice is a little hoarse again, but it _is_ the middle of the night, after all. And voices, Louis knows, are funny things. 

“Are you sure?” asks Louis again, because it is very late, and perhaps his faculties _are_ a little affected. He can feel the beginnings of a yawn build up in his chest, and his eyelids are getting very heavy. 

“Very sure,” confirms Aramis seriously. “He’s – like a confidant. You can tell God any secret you like, and He’ll still love you.”

Sometimes, thinks Louis, he feels as though he can tell Aramis any secret he likes. Aramis must be terribly good at secret keeping to be the First Minister of France, and he always has such kind eyes when he looks at Louis. Louis doesn’t know God very well, but perhaps if Aramis says He’s a good listener Louis should try talking to Him; Aramis, Louis knows, is not always around to talk to.

He thinks that’s terribly unfair. He’s the king, and tomorrow morning he will ask Mama if Aramis can be around, always, just in case God is busy, so Louis can tell him secrets.

Louis opens his fingers around the crucifix and reaches over to tuck it back into Aramis’s shirt. 

“I’ll try to be His friend too,” he declares, a little bit sleepy, putting his hands on his knees, still perched on Aramis’s knee. His head seems to have fallen on a strong shoulder, and his eyelids are slowly drooping shut. Aramis is so very warm. “Just like you are. But only when you’re not there to talk to first.”

“You’re falling asleep, your Majesty,” says Aramis’s soft voice, from somewhere above his head. “Shall we go back to your chambers?”

“C’n you stay?” asks Louis, words slurring together, the world around him slowly greying into a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

“Always,” whispers Aramis, impossibly quiet.

Louis is too tired to feel the kiss brushed against the crown of his head, but he has a vague feeling of being lifted into the air, and the sway of someone walking slowly. 

( _There_ , thinks Louis, right before he falls truly and properly asleep. Even Aramis wants to be around all the time.)

**

Louis is thirteen when he turns a corner of a back corridor in the far left wing of the palace to see Mama lean up on her toes and press a kiss to Aramis’s mouth.

It is a tiny thing, small and chaste and gentle, but there is a practiced ease to it that Louis, even as a child of thirteen, knows must be significant.

Louis would like to think that he is not naive. He knows, objectively, that when there are no longer papas around mamas are free to kiss whomever they wish. Madame de la Férre told him this, two years ago when Mama and he had visited the Notre Dame for mass on the eve of Noel, and he had seen Madame d’Chevreaux blush and giggle loudly when Monsieur Lamard, one of the gardeners, pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek – right there on the street! Madame d’Chevreaux had children, Louis knew; two daughters quite older than him with families of their own and one son who was training in the musketeer garrison with Luc. And Monsieur Lamard was not, of course, their papa.

Madame de la Férre’s dark eyes had twinkled brightly when she’d knelt down and said, “Well, your Majesty, Madame d’Chevreaux is no longer bound by the obligations of marriage. So she can exchange kisses with dashing gardeners if she likes, you see.”

Madame d’Artagnan had laughed then, a half-reproachful thing, and said, “ _Sylvie_ , don’t tell him such things!” as though it was something very adult and mature. Louis did not think it so strange; obviously, if Madame d’Chevreaux was allowed, she should have kissed Monsieur Lamard as much as she wanted to ensure that big bright smile on her face – even if Monsieur was not exactly what Louis would call _dashing_.

“When two people kiss each other,” says Louis now, focusing intently on Aramis’s face, trying to keep his voice measured and unaffected as Mama does in council meetings, “does that mean they love each other?”

Aramis looks up from the documents in his hands, which he had up until this point been perusing somewhat intently. His eyebrows twitch slightly, the way they always do when he is a little bit surprised and trying not to show it. They are walking in the gardens, Louis having sought the First Minister out as soon as Madame d’Chevreaux had let him escape his lessons, and thus far it’s been a familiar sort of companionable silence that feels as though it’s been a constant in Louis’s life since as far back as he can remember. But Louis has been itching underneath his skin to ask his question, thrills running along the inside of his fingernails each time he’d glanced over at his friend’s tall form walking beside him, disrupting what was usually a very relaxing time of day. Their walks, that is, not the literal time, which could have been early morning and could have been twighlight and Louis would not have been able to tell you, so focused he was on the skin-itching question he had. 

Of course, he _has_ asked the question before. It has been some four days since Louis’s game of hide and go seek led him into that sunlit corridor, and he has been doing some very intent Thinking.

Louis already knows some things. First, and foremost, that kisses on mouths are supposed to be important, as he has learned from Madame de la Férre and Marie Cessette’s excited whispering, that one time Luc walked into the room and delivered his bow with a terribly flushed and flustered face. He knows that kisses in _general_ (not solely on mouths, as that wouldn’t be much fun, Louis thinks, to only bestow kisses upon mouths) are signs of affection, and that they are not always the same kind of affection. Mama kisses his forehead in the evenings before bed; General du Vallon kisses Madame and Monsieur de la Férre on both cheeks when they embrace; and of course, he has seen Captain and Madame d’Artagnan exchange so many kisses over the years, bright ones and small ones and great smacking ones that have Madame d’Artagnan laughing and blushing in its wake. He has, too, seen the polite and decorous kisses given to people’s hands in court, stiff or grandiose and very rarely, Louis thinks, particularly sincere. The fashion in which the Duke of Wellington kissed the Duchess of Savoy’s hand, Louis knows, was _not_ sincere – _sincere_ is a word Louis has learned in his lessons to mean something possessing a bright sort of warmth underneath it all, and everything about that kiss was mean-spirited and cold. Louis is but thirteen, gangly and awkward for his young years and possessing an unruly mop of curls unbecoming a king, but he _knows_ sincerity, at least. It is in the laugh of Madame d’Artagnan and the quirked eyebrows of Madame de la Férre and the twinkle in Aramis’s eyes, and there is no sincerity in the way the Duke of Wellington kissed the Duchess of Savoy’s hand.

(Louis realizes, with a start, that he has seen Aramis kiss Mama’s hand, before, and _that_ , he knows, was very much sincere. Soft and gentle and warm – all good things, Louis remembers. Which – oh. Well then.)

“When two people kiss each other,” Aramis repeats, somewhat slowly. The sunlight is soft and warm above them – a sincere sunlight, Louis thinks – and Aramis lowers the documents he is holding in his hands.

“Yes,” says Louis, not one to lose his nerve in Situations Such As This. He is the _king_ , after all. And, also, he’s come to know that he can ask Aramis quite anything he likes, without having to worry about it. Which begs the question of why he is worrying _now_ , only – well. Mama _kissed_ him.

“Well,” says Aramis. “That – depends. Your Majesty.”

 _Depends_ is an interesting concept, as is the way Aramis is hesitating in his answer. Louis lifts his chin like he’s seen Mama do in front of members of council whom she doesn’t like, and tries to raise an eyebrow. 

(This is an endeavor that does not merit much success; he may be the king, but he has never been much good at eyebrow-raising, not like Captain d’Artagnan is.)

“Depends,” repeats Louis, because that feels the right thing to do.

“Yes, well,” says Aramis. “Sometimes – people kiss just for the sake of it. Or because that is what is expected of them.”

Louis forgets, now, to be kingly, because Aramis’s hesitation has somewhat changed into a gentle look of amusement, crinkles growing around his eyes though he is not _quite_ smiling, and Louis knows that he’s not said everything just yet. He leans in and does not care much that his eyes are growing wider and his voice growing eager.

“But?”

“But –” and here, a small smile, the kind that always makes Louis feel safe “– The best kisses are those that mean love. You try to make sure as many kisses as possible are those kinds of kisses, Majesty.”

“Hm,” says Louis, because this is all very interesting indeed.

“If I may ask, Majesty,” says Aramis, “are you considering kissing anyone in particular, lately, to have caused this line of inquiry?”

It is a mark of his familiarity with Aramis’s teasing and the Nature of the Situation that Louis does not blush (though he doesn’t have much to blush about, despite how pretty Marie Cessette’s smile may be) – but rather, he sighs in a put-upon manner at the embroidery on Aramis’s coat lapel. Sighing in a put-upon manner seems to be the best course of action, here, because much as Louis trusts Aramis as a friend and confidant and, of course, his First Minister, he is not quite sure how one brings up such topics of conversation as, “I saw Mama kiss you four days ago. Perhaps we can talk about this?”

(Louis has, in fact, refrained from mentioning it to anyone at all, aside from the evening two days ago where he climbed onto the window seat in his chambers and had a very serious conversation with God about whether or not it was Alright that Mama was kissing anyone at all. God was not, exactly, the most helpful in this confusing time, but Louis did not fault Him too badly for it – God knew Aramis before He knew Louis, after all, and perhaps He was trying to remain on neutral ground and not take sides, as good friends sometimes do. But Louis hasn’t spoken of it to anyone _else_ , not yet sure if it’s because he himself hasn’t quite decided his feelings upon the matter, or if it’s because the whole thing has an Aura that feels implicitly as though it should remain a secret. Some things, Louis knows, have Auras that feel implicitly as though they should remain secrets; he has been to a few council meetings with Mama, so far, in lieu of his becoming the _proper_ king in a few years time, and Louis has come to learn that there are an awful lot of secrets in the business of ruling a country.)

Louis hopes, here, that Aramis does not become too suspicious of him – yesterday, he sat by the fountain in the gardens with Mama and quite suddenly asked if Mama missed being kissed, and Mama’s eyes had widened alarmingly for a half moment before she composed herself and told Louis that, well, kissing wasn’t quite her highest priority at the moment, and besides, Papa had never – been one for kisses.

(She had hesitated there, just so, and Louis had flushed _then_ and thought he needed to improve the stealth in his question-asking abilities.)

(Louis had also thought that he was too young to really remember it, but Papa had never so much as touched Mama, really. And he knows now for a certainty that Mama does smile ever so much more often now that Aramis is around.)

(Louis does not know what to think _of_ this, but he has _thought_ it.)

“No prospective kisses, then,” Aramis concludes, from Louis’s best unimpressed look. _That_ , at least, is something that Louis does not need to improve.

“The king of France wishes to know more about kisses,” says Louis in an attempt at a lofty voice. “Is that no longer allowed, Minister d’Herblay?”

There is a pause, and the birds in the gardens call, as they are wont to do.

“With all due respect, Majesty,” says Aramis, his eyebrows raised in an equally unimpressed manner. (Louis wonders if he has actually learned his Best Unimpressed Look from Aramis.) “Lofty voices do not exactly become you.”

Oh. Well. Louis hopes he is not flushing, but he has a bad feeling he is. Most other courtiers, Louis knows, would rather die than tell Louis anything does not _become_ him. Louis wonders if there is a law somewhere that forbids such statements, or something ridiculous like that, but – well, even if there was, Louis is sure that Aramis would be exempt from it; Aramis, who has taught him better than any tutor how to understand maths with a few simple tricks, how to hold his sword with a grip such that not even the strongest of blows can dislodge it from his hands, how to read in Latin and actually enjoy the feel of the words in his mouth because he knew, deep down, their importance. Aramis is allowed to tell the king of France that a lofty voice does not become him, because by all accounts, Aramis has taught him many good things in other aspects of life. Louis is sure he knows what kinds of voices are becoming or not just as well as he knows how to hit a glass bottle in the air with a musket ball blindfolded, which is a trick that he showed Louis only after literal _months_ of begging and many disapproving glares shot at General du Vallon and, most importantly, a solemn oath between them to not tell Mama, which was promptly broken without much fan-fair in less than twelve hours after the fact on account of how badly they both hated keeping secrets from her.

That, Louis thinks, is another thing that Aramis has taught him – to hold his Mama in the highest regard, even if it means telling her things that he rather thinks might get him in trouble. 

In his vague memories of Papa, _he_ spoke in a lofty voice. But then, Louis thinks, he likes Mama’s firm, commanding tones more – the ones she uses when she is speaking to large crowds of Louis’s subjects. Or, indeed, Aramis’s gentle melodic ones, always filled with that same warmth that Louis has established is a hallmark of sincerity.

“Well, anyhow then,” says Louis, “I saw a peacock in the gardens the other day.”

“There are many peacocks in these gardens, Majesty,” says Aramis, undeterred by this abrupt change in subject of conversation. “Was it a big one?”

“Massive,” says Louis. “Aramis, do you love anyone?”

They have been walking so far, a companionable sort of amble down the side path over the other side of the fountain, but Aramis stops now, somewhat abruptly.

“I –” he begins, and then closes his mouth. He starts again, this time a little stronger: “Why, yes. Constance and d’Artagnan – and Porthos, of course, and Elodie and Athos and Sylvie. I love them all dearly.”

Louis stops, too, and rounds to face him, now placing his hands on his hips. He thinks that even if lofty voices don’t become him, he is very much in his rights at this moment to say something along the lines of, “Please, Aramis.”

“Please, Aramis,” says Louis, because of course, that is _not_ what Louis meant.

“I’m afraid then that I don’t know what you do mean, Majesty,” says Aramis, inclining his head. The sun is light and warm and Louis knows that they must cut quite a picture, both in their fine embroidered clothing and messy mops of hair – something Louis has always found comfort in, that he is not the only one at court with such unruly hair that refused to be teased into something Acceptable – standing there, one quite tall and the other quite gangly, having a staring match.

Louis bets they’d look even _more_ ridiculous if he was wearing his crown.

“Do you _love_ anyone,” says Louis. “Like in such a fashion that you would want to kiss them.”

“Ah,” says Aramis, and then does not say anything at all. Which, of course, has not answered Louis’s question.

“You haven’t answered my question, Aramis.”

Aramis’s face is tanned and weathered and scarred, not at all a face for a politician in the royal court of France. It softens, now, lines disappearing with a unique sort of gentleness that Louis wonders if only he and – and perhaps Mama, are privy to.

“I love you and your Mama,” says Aramis quietly, “and that is enough for me, Louis.”

“So you do love Mama, then,” blurts Louis, before he can stop himself, and Aramis’s eyes widen, not unlike Mama’s had yesterday, and then narrow.

“Of course,” he says, voice suddenly quite careful. “She is my Queen, and I her loyal subject.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” says Louis, removing his hands from his hips and crossing them over his chest. Better out with it all now, then, that Louis’s masterfully stealthy line of questioning has been botched.

“Louis,” says Aramis, once again very quiet.

“It’s – it’s alright that you do, I think,” Louis _wants_ to say, once more focusing on the embroidery on Aramis’s lapel. “She smiles when you are around, most times, and – I suppose Mama is a very good person to love, and that you are a very good person to love her. And – well, I suppose if that means that you could be _like_ a papa, if not a real one, then – I mean, you’re also pretty good at that, and I don’t remember Papa that well, and if you were to marry Mama because you loved her then I would not mind so much because I think you’re – a, a good friend, and an overall upstanding person.”

He had heard Madame d’Artagnan, visiting Mama the other day, refer to Monsieur Brujon’s mother as an overall upstanding person. It sounded a very good thing to be, the way she had said it, and overall Louis thinks he _would_ have delivered his speech quite well, had he actually spoken the words aloud.

Instead, he takes a long breath, holds it for a few moments, and then lets it all out again.

“The letters in your hands looked awfully important,” says Louis, quietly.

Aramis blinks at him. “They’re fantastically boring, actually,” he says somewhat blithely; a voice quite unlike the thing that came out of him moments ago. “But if you could refrain from telling the Marquis de Rohan that I said that, Majesty.”

Louis feels a smile curl at his lips. (He is quite alright with Mama kissing Aramis, it seems.)

“I shall keep it a secret always,” vows Louis, and Aramis winks at him.

(Aramis, Louis knows, is always allowed to wink at the king of France. Louis will write a whole law about it if he has to, just for posterity’s sake.)

**

Louis is sixteen.

He sits down beside Aramis on the bench among the hedges without a word. It’s close to twilight, the sun disappearing with reds and purples behind the horizon, and Mama had said with a crease between her brows and an uncharacteristic hesitation in her voice that they should not stay in the gardens too long, lest they both catch congestion.

Louis has a feeling she was more worried about Aramis than she was Louis; the First Minister of France sits at an awkward angle that must be terribly uncomfortable, his back not touching the bench and his right arm still in a sling against his chest. But then, Louis supposes, being shot in a place so unfortunate as the chest is an inherently uncomfortable experience.

His hands slip into the pocket of his silk breeches, fingers finding the smooth edges of his old childhood toy, Didi. Louis hasn’t found comfort in childhood toys in years, letting them sit arranged nicely along the shelves of the nursery and dusted daily by the servants, but this past week –

Louis is not unfamiliar with attempts on his life. He is the king, after all, and there are always those who would wish to harm the king, no matter how beloved Mama and he are by the people, now, over ten years after his coronation. He is eight, and hiding in the tunnels under the Louvre, clutching Madame d’Artagnan’s hand and forgetting the rumble of his stomach and the cold and damp, the threat of assassins up above in the palace with Mama, instead focusing on Aramis, sat in front of him, singing the most ridiculous of songs in both French and Spanish, ones that make Louis giggle and laugh until his sides ache. He is eleven, standing beside a saddled horse as Aramis kneels down in front of him deadly serious, asking Louis to trust him ( _of course_ ) before swinging him up on the horse and sending him with Monsieur de la Férre to a convent a day’s journey away; the palace is temporarily no longer safe. He is fourteen, and gunfire sounds loud and jarring outside of their carriage on the road to Fountainbleau, and he barely has the time to register Mama and Aramis’s rapid exchange above his head before Mama is grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him to the floor of the carriage, a warm solid body covering both of theirs almost moments later and remaining there until the noise dies away.

He does not think he will ever forget hiding with Captain d’Artagnan under the loose floorboards of the washer woman’s rooms, the dust in his lungs or the cry of pain d’Artagnan had given when the blade flashed down through the slats in the wood and buried itself in his shoulder. Louis had been five; to this day, he knows the good Captain’s fingers sometimes go numb, fumbling in the middle of showing Louis the proper way to handle his horse. Louis had seen Aramis earlier on that day – the first memory Louis has of him, he thinks, barreling around the corner and crashing sword-first into three men at once while Madame de la Férre whisked Louis back down the cathedral aisle, even then looking at Louis with a softness and intensity that Louis could not distinguish, at such a young age.

Louis is not unfamiliar with attempts on his life, and he realizes, now, that Aramis has been present every time, throwing himself bodily into the fray if necessary. Always Louis’s protector.

This feels significant, now, more so than it ever has before. A lot of things feel quite significant, now. 

The musket ball had caught a lung, Louis had been told. Lodged against the ribs, or else it would have passed right through and landed in Louis, who had only a moment to yell at the sudden onslaught of gunfire before Aramis had all but grabbed him bodily off of his horse and swung him towards the ground, a split second decisions that Louis realizes now with a twist to his stomach had been not just the quick thinking of a trained soldier but _also_ –

Louis’s fingers press more firmly against Didi, buried in his pocket, and looks back up at the flower bushes opposite their bench. He had asked to have this bench built, he remembers, several years ago, if only to stop Madame d’Chevreaux from protesting that his pretty clothes were too often soiled from rolling around in the grass whenever he went to play in his favorite spot on the palace grounds. _With respect, you indulge this childish behaviour_ , he’d once heard her tell Aramis, albeit with a touch of affection in her exasperated voice. _He ought to be playing indoors_.

 _He_ is _a child_ , Aramis had said, then, his voice even and genial as Louis’s poor governess tutted loudly. _Children need fresh air and exercise._

“Mama says that the physician advised against staying out in the damp,” says Louis, now, still looking intently at the roses in front of them. He should, he supposes, say _the Queen_ – he is old enough, now, Louis knows, to follow decorum and protocol and proper titles, no longer addressing people as intimately as he had in his childhood.

Somehow, the thought of it makes him want to cry. But – well, perhaps that is only a symptom of the current situation.

“I’ll only be a moment longer,” says Aramis quietly, continuing to examine the flora. Louis knows that they are wonderfully beautiful flowers, but he has a feeling Aramis’s interest in them is not of the aesthetic inclination. His voice is rough, perhaps with disuse or perhaps with the strain, and something in Louis’s chest twists again.

“Does it – does it hurt?” Because that feels an important question to ask, even though now that he’s actually _asked_ it, Louis feels somewhat foolish.

“I’ve had worst,” says Aramis, and for the first time in two weeks Louis can hear a hint of his usual teasing self under his words. “At least this time it was not Porthos who stitched me back up.”

“Is he terrible at stitching?” wonders Louis, because he is always hungry for more stories about the musketeers, even at times like this. A part of him feels guilty, but –

“He never appreciated the finer art of needlework,” says Aramis, still watching the rosebush. “He meant well, though.”

“He came to see you, last week.”

“I know, Majesty.”

Louis inhales, rather sharply at that.

“You – you talked for an awfully long time. Mama came in as well. I – I took it to mean you were feeling better.”

“Quite better,” says Aramis; his voice is soft, uncharacteristically small.

Louis had known, perhaps naturally, that Mama’s scream in that little forest clearing had not been one of a Queen in peril, but rather _Anne_ – Louis’s _Mama_ – yanking her arm out of Brujon’s grasp and all but running across the clearing even though gunfire was still sounding among the trees. Even with his face pressed against the underbrush, twigs digging into his cheek, Louis could feel his mother’s fear, so thick that it seemed to fill the very air of the clearing and clog up Louis’s lungs.

Hired assassins, Brujon reported, two days later, Louis sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed and Mama staring directly across the room at the wall, her grip on Aramis’s motionless hand white-knuckled and painful. All Louis could think of was the blood, slick and wet on the ground around them, and how he could not make his hands stop shaking.

He’ll be lucky to make it to the end of the week, the doctor said on the fourth day, his voice subdued, talking to Mama in the doorway. The, _I’m sorry, your Majesty,_ was barely audible to Louis, who had taken to sitting on the floor, because there was a tight sort of grip that was holding onto his chest and he did not feel particularly like a king. His sixteenth birthday had been two days before the ambush, and he suddenly felt less like a king than he ever had before.

 _Does that mean you can’t die, Aramis_ , Louis had once asked, and he could not for the life of him remember what Aramis’s response had been. The phantom memory refused to let up its tight, vice-like grip, and Louis had spent most nights waking up in his chambers trembling from nightmares, Madame d’Chevreaux’s insistence that he get some sleep well-meaning but pointless.

(It had been then, that evening, that Mama took his hand and sat with him in little alcove among the hedges, her face more pale than Louis had ever seen it and her voice barely above a whisper, and said that she needed to tell him something.

Tell Him Something, with all the importance in the world placed on those three words. Louis wonders now if God had decided to exchange one earth-shaking realization with another, in lieu of Louis forgetting about Him. Only, rather than making Louis come to terms with the unshakeable nature of death, He made Louis come to terms with – well.)

At the end of the week, Mama had opened the window and there were peacocks calling out in the gardens.

Athos – Monsieur de la Férre, Louis knew, but Mama had called him _Athos_ in a gasping, relieved sort of voice, rising to her feet the moment he walked in and grabbing his hands – he came that day, close to the evening, and said, “Aramis always has had a stupid amount of luck,” looking pale and drawn but with a relieved smile stringing the undercarriage of his tired voice. “You shouldn’t have even worried, your Majesty. Remember when he was pushed out of that damned window?”

Mama had embraced him, then, tears in her eyes, and Louis had oddly felt as though he was intruding on something private. But then Aramis had groaned and opened his eyes, and Louis had felt the tightness in his chest dissipate very slightly, and Mama had let out a funny little sob and repeated _oh thank God, thank God_ , over and over and over again. 

Louis had quite suddenly remembered that in all the chaos, he had forgotten about God.

Aramis, Louis knew, would have told him to talk to God about the bad dreams. Louis had forgotten. 

“This was always the best spot in the gardens.”

This is Louis speaking – Aramis is silent once more, as though he is having a private conversation with the roses. Which, Louis thinks, is not an unreasonable assumption, as once, when Louis was six, Madame d’Chevreaux had told Louis that he was looking at those bushes so seriously she thought he might be communicating with them. Perhaps they have that in common, Louis thinks, a tendency to have private communications with rosebushes, and it’s been two weeks and Louis knows they have so much more in common than just that and for some absurd reason he suddenly no longer wants to cry.

Or – perhaps he does, only it isn’t so suffocating anymore. Up until a moment ago, it had been the sort of miserable ache behind the eyes that Louis had been told usually followed drastic events like a person nearly dying, specifically if that person was your closest friend and you cared for them deeply, and even more specifically if – _oh_. Bugger it all.

“We married in secret two months after you were crowned king,” says Aramis suddenly, as though knowing instinctively that Louis’s thoughts are a very un-kingly mess. His voice is impossibly soft, as though he is afraid the words will be stolen away if he speaks too loudly. Or perhaps, Louis thinks, because of the very real threat of a coup if anyone overhears them. It’s a lousy thought, but Louis has not attended most of his lessons with diligence over the years to not understand, at least after a good week of Thinking, the Reasons. _Thinking_ and _Reasons_ both capitalized for importance because they are important words, in a Situation Such As This. 

Louis feels his hands tighten their grip on Didi, so suddenly that a small part of him fears the little horse might crack, and keeps his eyes trained on the hedge in front of them, silent. “Constance was there as witness,” Aramis continues, still quiet. “God bless her soul. But prior to that –”

His breath is shaky when he exhales, and Louis wonders if it is because of his injury or the conversation, because very rarely is Aramis shaky in his exhales.

“Mama told me why you couldn’t tell me.”

“Of course we couldn’t tell you,” says Aramis, now more in a whisper than ever. “Were anyone to know – that was hardly a burden we could ever have placed on a child. You were the _king_. Anything else –”

His voice catches here, and breaks, like his chest is finally no longer strong enough to bare the weight of so many years of pain. Of silence, Louis thinks, but even though he still isn’t looking at Aramis, the way he’s speaking – pain, Louis thinks. That is the right word.

“Were you going to tell me at all?” asks Louis, and wonders at the tremble in his own voice. Not the suffocating sort of tears, he remembers, but – something else. More relieving. The birds call from somewhere among the hedges.

“We made a promise,” and here Aramis’s whisper turns into a trembling laugh. “Whomever died last, on their deathbed.”

Louis snorts, because that does seem a plan very melodramatic and appropriate for such a thing. _Such a thing_ , as though this is not something very real that Louis is still trying to come to terms with. He has had two weeks, and this is the first time he has spoken to Aramis about it.

With a jolt, Louis realizes that perhaps that is why he’s not yet figured it out – not yet wrapped his head around it. Sitting here, with Aramis, makes it all too simple, all too natural. He can quite suddenly see every minute detail, every similarity that practically screams itself out to the world: the shape of Louis’s lips, the way his brows sit over his eyes, almond and dark unlike anything in the Bourbon line. His blond hair, so often threatened to be hidden under those awful wigs because of how it refuses to lay neatly, thick and curling at the ends in a mess that Louis had once complained to Aramis about, at ten years old, only to be told by his teasing first minister that one day, surely, it would look dashing and rakish and all the ladies at court would delight in it.

At seven, Louis had often wondered at how tall Aramis was; now, he stands almost at the same height, nearly past his lanky teenage years.

Louis remembers once, overhearing a conversation that was likely not meant for his ears – the wife of one of the lords on the council, speaking to Madame du Vallon, saying in a laughing voice that one got the impression that the Queen Regent and First Minister were as thick as thieves, practically able to guess what the other would say before they said it. Such a united front, she had added, approving; it was good for the country, though some of the other nobles didn’t like it. Louis has never doubted that Mama and Aramis cared for each other – even loved each other, a childlike understanding of their small, secret smiles and kind eyes ( _and that kiss, that one little kiss_ ) voiced aloud to Madame d’Chevreaux once, who had told him in a gentle voice to _hush, your Majesty_ , and let her get on with tying the ribbon in his hair.

His understanding is no longer childlike, an acknowledgement of a love much deeper and steadfast than Louis can find the words to describe. Louis is not yet married, though he is betrothed, and he wonders if Mama has deliberately pushed his engagement forward because she knows love in more than just one form.

 _We were young_ , Mama had said. _As though that is an excuse, Louis, and yet – possibly –_ definitely _foolish,_ with a watery laugh, her hands tight around his. _But there is not a day goes by that I regret it, Louis. Not a single day_.

(Louis had once thought, when he was but six years old, that Mama looked like an angel from heaven; Aramis had agreed with him, when Louis had voiced this opinion.)

There are some things Louis knows, now, at the age of sixteen. He knows that all he has learned of his father the late king are the oft-repeated lines spoken in court, of a nebulous man whom Louis ought to emulate, strung out on vague kingly qualities. Mama’s trusted friends speak of him only politely; Madame d’Chevreaux speaks of him kindly; Mama speaks of him very rarely, but when she does she tells Louis that he would do well not to forget him. Aramis does not speak of him at all.

Louis knows this, and he knows that until this moment, he’s not really given that much thought. It’s never been _important_ , as it is now, here, sitting on the garden bench.

“Mama – explained. Somewhat. Was –” A deep breath, and this is perhaps the last hurdle he needs to get past – “What was Papa like?”

Aramis inhales sharply, and then winces, as though a twinge is passing through his chest. 

“Louis –”

(Not _your Majesty_ , as if that even matters.)

“Because I’ve just realized,” Louis says, “that you don’t really – you’ve never talked of him, and everyone seems determined to have me remember him but I’ve no idea who he really was, and –” Aramis’s eyes are closed, almost screwed shut, no longer looking at the roses _or_ Louis. “What was he _like_.”

“He was – the king.”

“Aramis.”

“I will not,” he says now, voice rough and hoarse with an emotion Louis cannot identify, “speak badly of him, not even now. Never to you.”

Louis lets his thumb slide over Didi’s mane. 

“But you could,” Louis says, because he is not a child, and he _knows_ the man sitting before him more dearly than he has perhaps known anyone else. “You _could_ , Aramis. Please don’t lie to me.”

“He was a man,” says Aramis, still in that rough voice. “And men make mistakes. All men.”

“Did he love Mama?”

“Once,” in a voice once more impossibly soft. “Perhaps. In his own way.”

 _But not the right way_ , Louis feels compelled to finish in his own mind, something in his chest finally untwisting. He cannot imagine anyone not loving Mama in the right way.

Louis nods, turning his face towards the roses again. They really are beautiful, soft yellows and pinks and whites curling around themselves through the petals’ natural designs. Mama has always loved flowers, Louis thinks, she and Madame d’Artagnan so often seen walking through the gardens in the summertime, flowers in each others’ hair. Once, he had seen a few stray ones in Captain d’Artagnan’s as well, and Aramis had wondered aloud if it had been the decree of the Queen or his wife that he could not refuse.

“Perhaps he just likes the flowers,” Louis had suggested, and Aramis had laughed, loud and bright and rich – the laugh that always made Louis feel safe.

“Louis,” he says now; not _your Majesty_ , or _sire_ , or even _Louis_ in the soft secretive way that he sometimes does. “I am – so, so sorry.”

Louis blinks, and looks over; his eyes are still closed.

Louis has forgotten something, he realizes. It’s been two weeks. It’s high time.

“Hello, God,” says Louis, because he cannot think of any other way to start. Beside him, Aramis makes a small sound, like an inhale. “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you in so long. Things have been a bit of a mess. But I suppose – well, I haven’t asked for this yet, and I suppose as the King I really don’t have the right to ask for much – at least, that’s what Mama says. She says I ought to stay humble. But – it feels right to ask if perhaps you could help Aramis recover from his injuries as soon as you are able.” Louis takes a great big, shaking breath, and on impulse releases his grip on the toy in his pocket and grabs the calloused hand resting on the bench beside him. Aramis starts visibly, but Louis tightens his grip: “He’s very dear to me, you see, and I’d hate –” Louis’s voice does a funny thing, splintering – “I’d hate if he went away, because I’ve just learned something very important and, and I – I want him to stay around so I can tell him how happy I am, about it.”

A bird caws in the gardens. Louis wonders if it is a peacock.

“That is to say,” says Louis, and a tear splashes down his cheek. His voice is officially coming out strangled, and very much not becoming a king. “Very, very happy. I could not be happier, God. Thank you – for everything.”

He gives a shaky exhale, turning his head.

Aramis is crying.

Louis does not think he’s ever seen him cry – not even at the most frightening of moments, somehow always strong and solid and reliable and brave and – but he is _crying_ , his sharp brown eyes filled with tears that splash silently down his cheeks, several at a time, and he is looking at Louis with a kind of awe that Louis cannot find the words to describe, as though he thinks he is dreaming.

“I think,” says Louis, his voice still sounding decidedly garbled, “that I really am very glad.”

His right hand is still holding on Aramis’s, so he feels it when he moves his hand, untangling his fingers and bringing his palm up to cup Louis’s cheek. It’s a gesture that Louis does not think anyone but Mama has done before, and it is – impossibly gentle.

 _Thank you_ , mouthed like a prayer, to God or to Louis Louis doesn’t know, but there is a disbelieving smile curving Aramis’s lips even as the tears keep spilling down his cheeks, and this time Louis can hear his voice, a hoarse whisper:

“God,” he says, the tears thick in his voice, his breath catching, and once more between what Louis recognizes as small sobs, “ _God_.”

Louis can hear the birds calling in the gardens, reminding them of the setting sun and the damp among the rose bushes and the fleeting nature of life, and, impossibly gentle, he leans in and hugs Aramis closely, pressing his face in the crook of the older man’s neck.

(He is the king, after all, and he is allowed to hug his father if he so pleases. 

There are many secrets to be kept in the business of ruling a country, Louis knows.)

**Author's Note:**

> (somewhat incoherent) NOTES:  
> \- God is a supporting character in this fic because Aramis's relationship with God is tremendously important to me, but it's important to note that Louis's understanding (and indeed Aramis's explanation) of God and Who God is is ultimately (in MY OPINION) somewhat childish and simple, because Louis is a _child_ , through almost all of this fic, and not actually reflective of what I think Aramis's own understanding is  
> \- Anne and Aramis are France's cutest political power couple and no one can convince me otherwise, if anyone what wondering they get married in secret and do stuff like sleep in each others' rooms every night (Anne always hogs the blankets bc she's not used to sleeping w another person in the bed) and hold hands under the table in council meetings when things get stressful. i dont make the rules, this is fact,  
> \- this is SO HISTORICALLY INACCURATE it's not even funny, i am acknowledging that with no shame, if you were intending on leaving a comment noting all the historical errors please keep in mind that it was a conscious choice and i really truly felt that the tone and purpose of the story would be nullified if the reality of growing up in the 17th century french court was reflected in Louis's character.  
> \- if u were wondering the orphanage children from 3x01 were a necessary addition to this fic, Aramis consults w Anne about it after the war is over and Elodie and Porthos help them set up a whole building where all the orphans of war can come and stay if they can't find families for them and it is, once again, so historically inaccurate but 100% Undeniably Exactly What Happens  
> \- Luc becomes a Musketeer and is d'Artagnan's best soldier, this is Fact  
> \- d'Artagnan and Constance ADOPT TWENTY KIDS who are not featured here and twenty is an exaggeration but they adopt a bunch of kids once again i don't make the rules  
> \- Anne's promise to Louis that she'd keep his memory alive is like .... admirable and v reflective of Anne's compassionate character, yes, but also a) that was waht she NEEDED to say in that situation to keep herself afloat and b) i also think that truly, considering how anguished Anne looked at the end of that scene after Louis left, if the babyTM just naturally gravitated towards his first minister because Aramis is inherently shaped like a kind and loving father, Anne would ultimately be like [shrug emoji] what can i do! and get on with her happy life  
> \- if anyone here is gonna try and start DiscourseTM on how King Louis was the babyTM's real dad because he was THERE when it counted they can kindly,,,, not. that's not the point of this fic. that's not the way i interpreted the story, and i don't think that's what the writers intended to write. anyways,  
> \- I HOPE U ENJOYED AND I HOPE U APPRECIATE THAT I CRIED A LOT WRITING THIS FIC,  
> \- XXO


End file.
